


Ice, Fire, and Potentially Illicit Substances

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Hook, BDSM, Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Ice Play, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, M/M, Sensation Play, Sexual Content, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), chain bondage, just the ramblings of an ineffable bdsm expert, mention of a substance which could be considered a drug, testicle cuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29087436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale wants to try his hand at a new brand of cock torture, and Crowley is more than happy to oblige.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	Ice, Fire, and Potentially Illicit Substances

“12 … 13 … 14 …”

“That’s it. Keep counting, my dear. Nice and steady ... make it even ...”

“15 … 16 … 17 …”

Crowley’s voice falters when his teeth chatter. Exhaustion hits him during the pause, his muscles stressed beyond the brink by Aziraphale's latest method of predicament torture: a series of chains, wound through pulleys affixed to the ceiling, the tail ends attached to blocks of ice being used as counterweights, which Crowley had been instructed to keep off the floor by holding his arms out to his sides ... or _else_.

It had been a breeze for the first ten minutes or so.

After an hour, it becomes a bit much.

“I can’t hear you. Is something the matter?” Aziraphale asks in a sing-song tone.

Crowley shakes his head before he answers, even though Aziraphale isn't in the room. "Nope. Nothing the matter. Just ... catching my breath."

Aziraphale peeks into the bedroom to check Crowley’s progress.

There he is, right where Aziraphale left him, kneeling on the floor, naked and splayed like a crucified man, his cock and balls bathing in a squat bowl of evening snow. Snow that Aziraphale is particularly fond of because he gathered it himself. He'd dressed all cozy in a thick, goose down coat and tartan print Wellies, and trekked out to the growing dune outside their cottage window that was once a thriving evergreen shrub. 

Crowley catches Aziraphale checking in on him. He smirks past his discomfort, flexing his biceps for good measure. Aziraphale scowls. He didn't want his husband to catch him peeking. 

He would like to catch Crowley slipping up.

Then he'd have an excuse to discipline him.

But Crowley is on his best behavior. From the indents in the snow to the still immaculate masking tape marks on the floor where his knees rest dead center, Aziraphale knows that Crowley hasn’t moved an iota. 

It's _infuriating._

But he'll let it go.

Good behavior, as always, is rewarded in the Crowley-Fell household.

“18 … 19 … 20 …” Crowley continues.

Aziraphale smiles. “Have I mentioned how grateful I am that you agreed to do this with me?”

"Yes, but ... uh ... ngk ..." Crowley shudders as he forces down the Hellfire fighting to consume him, relieve him of this agony "... it might bear repeating one more time."

Aziraphale leans over and plants a kiss on Crowley's forehead. "Thank you again, my dear."

"N-no ... no problem."

Aziraphale glances down at the snow cradling Crowley’s cock and balls and sucks in a sympathetic breath. To be completely honest, he wouldn’t want to be in Crowley's position right now, for a dozen reasons. 

Crowley is a walking, sometimes slithering, contradiction. 

He runs hot. Always has. And not just because he's a demon. All demons carry Hellfire within them. But everything Crowley does, he does with fire. 

Passion. 

Imagination.

But Crowley was the serpent of Eden and serpents are cold-blooded, which might have something to do with his preferences. His favorite form of sensation play is heat. He revels in melted wax on his skin, the head of a match or the tip of a lit cigarette extinguished on his flesh. That spark of anticipation before the first touch, the initial burn on contact, the soothing ache after – those are but a few of Crowley's turn-ons.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, favors cold. He attributes that to being a vessel of Grace.

It runs cold within him.

The contrast between Crowley’s heat and Aziraphale's cold is something Aziraphale craves: that flash of electricity between them, that erotic chill when their bodies combine - Aziraphale needs it. 

But, secretly, it got him wondering. 

Aziraphale has never made love to an angel.

Crowley has told Aziraphale before that having his angel inside him is like being engulfed by an ocean wave. It fills him with the soothing sensation of a fall breeze, the crisp bite of an Arctic chill.

Aziraphale longs to know what that feels like.

What it might have been like if he and Crowley had fallen in love, and consummated that love, as angels.

“26 … 27 … 28 …”

“Keep counting, my dear. I need to hear you get to 50.”

 _"50!? Fuck!"_ Crowley shifts, but only a hair so Aziraphale won’t notice. His thighs ache in this low kneel, legs spread wide. His cuffed balls, trying their hardest to retreat to the shelter of his body, but obstructed by a cruel ring of metal, have effectively gone numb. He's losing feeling to the lower half of his body. He needs to take his mind off it, stop focusing on it before he goes nutty.

“H-how did you hear about this technique again?”

“I may have read about it in one of Anathema’s books.”

Crowley goes rigid, becomes anxious. Aziraphale has taken a lot of chances, crossed a great many lines, but this could be going too far. “Oi! Are you practicing witchcraft now?”

“Nonsense!"

"It sure sounds like it."

"All I did was help Anathema translate a passage in her book of herbs. I just happened to stumble upon one with certain _properties_ I found intriguing _._ "

"And what exactly does this herb do?"

"Apparently, it approximates rigor mortis in humans.”

Crowley frowns. _Eww._ "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And Book Girl was reading up on it?"

"Yes."

"If that isn't a bit ..." Crowley swallows hard "... disturbing."

"Quite," Aziraphale says with much more nonchalance than Crowley feels the subject warrants. "You don't know anything about it?"

"An herb that makes humans appear dead? Sounds like something I should know, but no. I didn't."

"Interesting. It seems witches were pretty adept at keeping their secrets, hmm?" Aziraphale says, wondering what else he might unearth in one of Anathema's books that Crowley hasn't a clue about.

"But what made you think to give it to me?"

"There was something scribbled in the margins regarding not giving the herb to, and I quote, beings of stagnant blood, meaning ghouls and vampires and whatnot, I suppose. Or it might cause an unsettling increase in the surplus population. I put two and two together."

"That's kind of a stretch, innit?" Crowley says. "What if it had an entirely different effect? Like it caused me to multiply or something?"

"Huh. I never thought of that." Aziraphale shrugs. "I was right, though, wasn't I?"

"I guess," Crowley grumbles.

Aziraphale strolls over to his demon for an inspection. He’s been walking in and out of the bedroom, removing an article of clothing every five minutes or so. Then he puts it carefully away, teasing Crowley with peeks of what he can't have yet.

Considering the multitude of layers Aziraphale wears, it's taken a while for him to get completely undressed. 

Aziraphale crouches in front of Crowley, examines the flame simmering in his amber eyes. 

_Quelling that Hellfire must be killing him_ , Aziraphale thinks.

He should sympathize. But knowing that Crowley is fighting it, knowing how hard he must be fighting, really turns him on.

Aziraphale reaches around, careful not to touch too much, and feels for the plug he'd slid into Crowley's arse when he first made his demon strip. He gives it a tug, but it barely budges. Satisfied, he picks up a handful of snow from the bowl, wraps his fingers around Crowley's cock, and starts to stroke. The heat from Aziraphale’s hand, radiating through the melting snow, burns Crowley's frozen skin. But the mechanical stimulation, along with the visual of Aziraphale strutting around, bending over on occasion and presenting himself to him, helps the herbal concoction take effect.

Cold balls or no, Crowley starts to get hard in Aziraphale’s hand.

“H-how long do you expect this to last?” Crowley grinds through his teeth when Aziraphale stops stroking and unceremoniously drops his erection back onto the snow.

“If the text I translated is accurate, around six or seven hours. Give or take.”

Crowley's eyes pop open so rapidly, Aziraphale nearly snorts. “S-six or s-seven hours!?” 

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He goes back to giving Crowley’s cock a few more quick strokes, followed by a few hard slaps. When Crowley’s erection doesn’t die, Aziraphale decides he’s ready. “Alright. Let’s get you up.”

Aziraphale unhooks Crowley's wrists from their shackles, allowing what's left of the ice to crash to the wood floor. But in expert bastard fashion, he re-locks Crowley's wrists together behind his back.

And then he leaves him there. 

Leaves him to fend for himself.

Even though Aziraphale set this scene up for his own pleasure, fucking him is a reward. If Crowley wants to have his angel, he's going to have to get up off the floor and make his way over to the bed all by himself.

Crowley had found a groove in the floor, in the center of the taped ‘x’s, that kept him from sliding. But now that he has to leave it, his legs refuse to cooperate. 

And no magic allowed.

It's one of their rules for this scene. A rule they both agreed upon, but which Aziraphale suggested. Probably because Aziraphale knew how much Crowley was going to suffer without his magic.

Without his arms to aid him, Crowley has to lurch upward using his hips while Aziraphale sits on the bed and watches. He starts with his right foot, but it’s a struggle to put weight on that leg, his knee locked, his glutes frozen. He manages to rise up awkwardly, unbending the other leg in the process, but that leg is no more helpful than the first. He tries for one lunge up with all of his weight behind it ... and almost flies face-first into the bed frame.

Watching his demon teeter like a drunken top, Aziraphale relents. “Steady, now. Steady.” He grabs Crowley’s arm, helps him forward. "I don’t want you damaging anything before I'm done with you. Would be awfully disconcerting for you to discorporate in your current configuration." Aziraphale snickers. "Whatever would the paperwork look like?”

“Th-that’s v-very considerate of you, a-angel," Crowley growls.

“I put a lot of time and effort into this plan. It would be a pity to have that all go to pot.”

"Nice." Crowley grimaces as Aziraphale maneuvers him - first his right leg, then his left - onto the mattress. He wobbles back and forth, crawling high on his knees. In the process, he spots another pulley above his head, threaded with rope. Crowley hadn't noticed Aziraphale climbing on the bed to fiddle with that pulley while he knelt on the floor, too distracted by the mouthwatering display of flesh that would periodically glide on by. Seeing the rope dangling from it at about waist level makes his gut quiver.

He knows what's coming.

 _Him,_ over and over and over, forcefully, until his stomach cramps into his chest.

How is it that Aziraphale is the angel? Even with his vast imagination, in over 6000 years, Crowley hasn't come up with anything as diabolical as this.

“I know your knees must be killing you, so I’m going to help you out.” Aziraphale leaves Crowley momentarily to rummage through the closet. He returns carrying a silver hook with a ball tip. Aziraphale lubes it up, the knob end about the size of an avocado pit. He pulls out Crowley’s plug and hooks him, maneuvering the slick end into Crowley’s gape with ease. Aziraphale attaches the loop end of the hook to the hanging rope and knots it securely. Then he hoists the slack, pulling until the rope becomes taut, which forces Crowley straight like a marionette, numb legs or not. It also positions the ball head of that hook in a place where the slightest glance makes Crowley's toes curl and his eyes roll to the back of his head.

If Aziraphale is planning on edging Crowley, he may be out of luck.

When Aziraphale has Crowley how he wants him, he ties off the rope's tail on the bed frame.

Aziraphale plucks the rope like a guitar string, snickering when Crowley groans in the back of his throat.

“Well ...” Aziraphale sighs "... isn't that a pretty picture?"

"Oi! Don't be gettin' any ideas now!" Crowley scolds. "We didn't agree on photographs!"

"I know, I know," Aziraphale says, climbing onto the bed, not using any care to keep the mattress from rocking. He smiles on the sly, knowing that his husband, who had agreed enthusiastically to the role of _plaything_ for the evening, is gritting his teeth with every inch of pressure Aziraphale places on the mattress. “Let’s get rolling, shall we? Don’t need you heating up, or I'll have to stick your bits back in that bowl.”

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get on with it." Crowley sounds embarrassed. He would say he doesn't appreciate being teased while he's vulnerable.

But Aziraphale knows better.

He knows humiliation - the kind that comes from a condescending bastard that Crowley respects - is the iron that stokes his libido.

Aziraphale preps his husband with a dollop of lube on the frigid head of his cock. He doesn't need it, but the light touch that accompanies it adds a subtle level of torture to the whole experience. Crowley can see his angel - all of him exposed from head to toe. But his contact with Aziraphale's body has been limited to a single kiss and his palm through a layer of snow. 

Aziraphale uses Crowley's cock as a masturbatory aid - coaxes his own hole open with it, stretching himself over it. There’s a deeply satisfying pleasure to the sear that comes with the stretch, which is why he allows himself to have it when he could simply will it away. They both do. It’s a fulfilling experience. Grounding. He slides down Crowley’s cock, taking it fast so that Crowley doesn't have time to adapt to the squeeze.

“My _goodness_ ,” Aziraphale moans, disregarding the sharp breath from Crowley, his inhalation of pain. 

"H-how does that feel?" Crowley asks.

"Not to be indelicate, but it's quite like sticking an icicle up one's bum." Aziraphale curls his fingers into the fitted sheet and pulls, a shiver racing up his spine. “Holy Moses."

"So, is that going to become a thing with you? Shoving ice up your arse?"

"Could be," Aziraphale purrs. "Hold your tongue, or I won't invite you to join."

"You know, for an angel, you have some bizarre fetishes."

Aziraphale turns to the side, glaring at his husband. "And what exactly do you know, my dear boy, about the fetishes of angels?"

"Uh ... not a bloody thing," Crowley admits, and quickly before Aziraphale changes his mind and leaves him hanging from the ceiling to thaw.

"Then believe me when I tell you that's a subject you don't want to touch."

“Let me put this another way - did it turn out the way you'd hoped?” 

Aziraphale grins. “I think this is going to be the greatest six to seven hours of my life.”


End file.
